


Ikael's Foolproof Seduction Plan

by WingsOfTime (orphan_account)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Flirting, Good Flirting, Massage, Oral Sex, Other, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, a Very high-stakes game of fantasy Goldfish, gosh bless, i'm not going to lie to you it's laid on THICK, ikael has GOOD ideas that are definitely not terrible, just know that he's trying his best, no previous knowledge of Ikael is required, sex with feelings, sexual tension the fic, thancred is observant, there may be some frustration involved, when he gets there. eventually, which works mostly to ikael's detriment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: (Wherein he is the fool.)Ikael's days have been so long, and so sex-less to boot! All he wants is a good, satisfying lay. All heneedsis a plan, some help, and someone to, well, seduce.Thancred has the unfortunate luck of being that someone.
Relationships: Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters
Comments: 23
Kudos: 57





	Ikael's Foolproof Seduction Plan

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome! to this. sorry in advance! also about. the wordcount. i promise they will, eventually, snicker-doodle
> 
> also, this is a standalone fic with no knowledge of ikael or any of my works required! (for those of you who have read those, this is a oneshot AU)  
enjoy! <3

“And it’s just—it’s not _enough_, Tataru,” Ikael bemoans to the heavens—or more accurately, to the shining copper pot hanging from the ceiling rack. “You can only sleep with a man once, you know? And then they're useless.”

He gives his dough an extra firm punch, sinking his knuckles deeply into its sticky insides. Yes, he is always this thorough when it comes to baking anything that is maybe perhaps a little bit flesh-coloured. No, he is _not_ overcompensating. For anything.

Tataru nods, shockingly. “I understand what you mean,” she says with a soft little sigh. She looks off to the side.

Ikael’s kneading hands pause. “You, ah…” He licks his lips. “You do?”

His voice cracks embarrassingly. Tataru doesn’t comment, because she is a blessing, but she does look up at him with those big violet eyes and nods, blinking slowly. Ikael quashes the urge to coo at her and pat down the wayward strands of hair sticking out of her ponytail. He flips his dough instead.

“Sometimes the chase is the only fun part,” Tataru declares, out of absolutely nowhere. “Or if _they're_ chasing _you_. Now that’s more fun.”

Ikael’s fingers spasm. He says, “A-ah, oh? Yeah?” and then shuts up, because he is part _cat_, not monkey.

Tataru heaves a sigh that has absolutely no right sounding as dramatic and forlorn as it does. “Yeah,” she affirms, patting her own neat little ball of dough. “Sometimes there is all this build-up, and then you and him finally get to _there_, and it’s just… disappointing, you know? But you’ve already wasted three outfits and a new haircut on him, so what can you do?”

Ikael stares at her. She sprinkles flour on her ball, humming lightly, and then dusts her hands off overtop. She glances at him. Her brow puckers in concern.

“You’re really beating that up, aren’t you?” she says. “Why don’t we finish up and set these aside to rise, alright? Then we can chat.”

Ikael glances down. He’s overworked the dough, he realizes in dismay. The bread will bake thick as a fruitcake. Well, shite.

He wipes it off his fingers as best he can, wincing at the stickiness. Tataru pats him on the hip.

“I think you just need to get it out of your system,” she says sympathetically. “Come on—I know where Riol hides Thancred's wine. Let’s see if we can solve your boy problem.”

~

“Okay.” Tataru points her empty wineglass at him. They may or may not have gone through a bottle of something unlabelled, but sweet and decidedly easy to down. “So your goal is… to sleep with someone.”

Ikael pumps his head in a nod. “A man,” he clarifies unnecessarily.

Tataru nods back. “A man,” she confirms. “And the problem is that you don’t have any options.”

“I mean…” Ikael lounges back in his armchair, spreading his hands out theatrically. “I want _quality_ options, you know? But I don’t want to be with a random stranger. It’s the—it’s the—_allure_,” he waves his fingers, “that is key.”

Tataru settles her chin on her fist. “Allure…” she repeats thoughtfully, staring off into the distance. After a second, she glances up at Ikael. “Why can't you pick someone who’s already interested in you? I can assure you,” and her eyes turn sly, “I am _well_ aware of those possible candidates. We could go through the list.”

Ikael pouts. “It would be too complicated,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to sleep with anyone who’s—who—would want to _court_ me. Just… no tricky feelings, you know? Just a good…”

He makes an obscene gesture, forgetting until the last second whom he is speaking to. By the time his eyes go wide, Tataru is already nodding.

“I understand,” she says as before, once more sounding far too genuine for this topic of conversation. “Well. Why don’t we make a list anyways? Then we can cross people out. It’s better than starting from nothing.”

Ikael sighs, slumping in his seat. “I suppose…”

“Great!” Tataru chirps. She hops off her chair and darts away with far more enthusiasm than Ikael would have expected. He stares off after her, nonplussed.

She returns with a pen and a… _long_ roll of parchment. She spreads it out on the table, looks up at Ikael, and smiles.

“Where do we begin?” she asks angelically.

Nearly half a bell later, the parchment details a lengthy list of names in both of their handwritings, most of them crossed out. Ikael winces as he draws a line through an elegant _A_ and its follow-ups. Gorgeous, without a doubt, but, ah. Definitely complicated.

Tataru is tapping her pen against her lips, surveying their list with a clinical gaze. “Why not Lord Hien, again?” she asks briskly.

Ikael sighs. “He’s all the way in Doma, and he’s been under constant watch recently. I _would_ sleep with him—” Again. “—but I don’t want to have half a dozen shinobi listening in on us the entire time.”

_And Yugiri. Yugiri would definitely be there_, an unhelpful little voice inside his head adds.

Tataru strikes out Hien’s name (Ikael had already scratched an awkward line over it, but weakly, because he _is_ attractive. Apparently, Tataru suffers neither frailty nor fools).

“You know who is not on here?” Tataru muses in a voice that Ikael _really_ does not like. Before he can ask whether that is a rhetorical question or not, she continues, “The senior Scions.”

Ikael blinks. “Like—like _Urianger_?” he squeaks. His tail curls up against him, scared. He squeezes it soothingly.

“Urianger,” Tataru notes, scrawling his name down in a way that almost comes across as dismissive. She immediately crosses it out. “And you know who else? Thancred.”

Ikael gazes at the line striking through what he reads as _Uruager_. “Thancred?” he says in disbelief. “No. That would never happen.”

Tataru’s eyes glimmer mischievously. “Because of you, or because of him?”

Ikael’s doleful eyes land on _Oker Boulder_. He had written that one down, but Tataru had made a very good point about nets and rivalries and webs of complexity. He tugs at his ear nervously.

“Thancred wouldn’t be… interested in _me_,” he says. He looks into Tataru’s too-calculating eyes. “Come on. No… really? Oh, come on. _Thancred?_ Tataru, I haven’t seen him so much as glance at a passing barmaid in _years_.”

Tataru clicks her tongue. “Well, he wouldn’t exactly do it in front of you, would he? It’s not like he suddenly loses those urges just because he thinks he’s more mature now, Ikael. You just need to… make them focused on _you_.”

“And how do I do that?” Ikael fixes her with a flat look. “He—I can’t believe you’re even… Thancred is so far above my pay grade it seems ridiculous to even consider. I can’t seduce a former infamous flirt! You are asking the impossible of me.”

It is true. As far as Ikael is concerned, Thancred renouncing his old ways means there is absolutely no way in any of the hells he is going back to them against his will. And it isn’t as if Ikael has breasts to flash in his face for a viable shot of actually sparking interest. No—no matter how he thinks about it, the task is unsurmountable.

“It won’t be that hard if we plan it out,” Tataru declares, writing Thancred’s name down in large, round lettering. Ikael looks on in dread. “Now tell me, would you sleep with him, if you could?”

Well. “Yes, but—”

“Excellent.” She circles the name. “Plan Thancred it is.”

Ikael falls back in his chair, covering his face. “I can’t do it,” he moans.

“Not with that attitude! You underestimate us, Ikael. With the right approach, you can make _any_ man attracted to you, I guarantee it! Thancred may be complex, but he _is_ just a man. You trust me, don’t you?”

Ikael peeks at her through his fingers. Slowly, he nods.

Tataru’s mouth curves up in a calculating smile. “Good. Because this,” she declares, tapping her pen against the parchment, “Will be _fun_.”

~*~

Step one: Make him look.

_But that’s the whole point!_ Ikael had cried, throwing up his hands. _I don’t _know_ how to make him look at me!_

_Okay, okay_. Tataru had spread her hands out to calm him. _I’ll change it. How about “Step one: Put the idea into his head.”_

Step one: Put the idea into his head.

Ikael tugs his ankle closer to his hip, shifting to get more comfortable. Or less _un_comfortable, rather; the strip of lacy fabric underneath his brais leave little room for maneuvering. Hopefully, Thancred will see it, be instantly aroused, and Ikael can go back to his suite and change so he doesn’t have to keep it on.

“Knight,” Thancred calls after a long minute of deliberation. “Why do you keep fidgeting like that? Are you nervous because of the extraordinarily high stakes of our game, or do you have indigestion?”

Ikael winces internally. Outwardly, he clears his throat. “Namazu.”

Thancred picks up another card and adds it to his hand. Ikael says, “I, ah. It’s nothing. Your turn.”

He has to be careful about this. He can’t make himself look like an idiot too early on. In some ways, it is just like a game of _Namazu_. Ikael is the cunning artist, the master who never reveals his cards, no matter the stakes. Thancred, the unwitting man who is going to get played.

Thancred's eyes flick up to his briefly, and then go back to his hand. “I just went.”

Oh.

“A-ah—two,” Ikael stutters. He clears his throat again.

Thancred sighs and plucks out a Two of Stars. Ikael chitters happily as he takes it and pairs it with his own. He sets them facedown on the ground. He is winning.

“Why did you pick such a simple game, again?” Thancred complains. “It is almost impossible to cheat at it. That makes it unfair to me.”

“What can I say? I keep my cards close to my chest,” Ikael purrs. He ducks his head, giving Thancred a look that hopefully comes across as captivating and enigmatic.

Then he shifts to adjust the strip again. Damned thing.

“We can break if you need to use the bathroom,” Thancred says. “Please, feel free to leave your cards here. I am trustworthy.”

Ikael does put his cards down, if only to seize this opportunity to “accidentally” reveal his garment. The sooner Thancred's obvious desire rises in his loins, the sooner he can take it off. “A break sounds like a good idea,” he says with a sigh. “I am all… _stiff_ everywhere. Eheheh.”

He fakes a yawn, stretching his arms up and arching his spine. He doesn’t look to see if the red string hooked on his hipbone is showing, although he _had_ worn his brais a little lower and he _can_ feel his tunic riding up.

When he cracks an eye open once more, Thancred's handsome jaw is angled away from him as he searches for something in his pack. Ikael stops mid-stretch to look at him stupidly, and then risks a glance down. Yes, the string is showing. Should he… risk another stretch, or…?

“So, do you have something planned for tonight?” Thancred asks, still digging through his pack.

_What? He can’t mean_… Ikael swallows nervously, pulse suddenly skittering in his throat. “A-ah… what do you mean?”

Thancred glances at him finally. His eyes flick to Ikael’s hip, and the corner of his mouth curls up into a slow smile.

“_That_,” he murmurs teasingly, and oh, amaro shite in a box, Ikael has never seen that smile and heard that tone of voice in combination before. Thancred is just teasing, but… “I must say, good for you. You deserve to have some fun.”

Ikael swallows again, willing himself not to do something idiotic like clench his thighs together. “A-ah. Well.” He glances down, fighting an unexpected blush. “Not—not really. Just… ah, just me. You know. Having fun.”

He looks back up again, and Thancred's smile has turned devilish. _Oh_, Ikael thinks, heart somewhere at the bottom of his stomach. Is he going to—what is he going to—

“Look at you, blushing like a virgin. Aren’t you adorable? Well I must say, in that case, if I’m keeping you from your _fun_…”

“No, no! Not at all.” Ikael holds out of his hands, reassurances tumbling from his lips. Mostly to get Thancred to stop talking to him like—like _that_. He has no right! Ikael is the one who is supposed to make Thancred feel all… tingly, not the other way around. And he isn’t even doing it on purpose, which makes it worse. _Get yourself together, Jelaar._

They go back to playing. Ikael doesn’t so much as fidget once for the rest of the game. He… has made enough progress for tonight, he reasons. And he may need to… re-evaluate. A little.

Thancred ends up winning.

~*~

Ikael eventually decides that the first step had half worked. Thancred had certainly noticed, but he seems to have firmly lumped Ikael into the _friend I can tease about his sex life_ category rather than the _friend I want to take to bed and ravage_ category. Not to fear! Ikael knew this would be difficult. It is Thancred, after all. So he just has to… modify the step a little bit.

Until Thancred wants to ravage him.

The thought sends a pleasant jitter down his spine, and he fights against it, scolding himself. Bad Ikael! _He_ is the sexy one. Thancred is the… is the sexee. Ikael is the sexer. Thancred is the sexee.

Right.

He has invited Thancred over for dinner. Or rather, he has invited _himself_ over to Thancred's apartment for dinner that he will cook anyways, because he does not have a stove in his suite. Or any space for a kitchen, really. The room is only made for rest, it seems. No matter! Thancred's apartment is cozier, anyhow.

He knocks on the door and waits, anticipation coiling in his stomach. He is wearing something a little shorter and more form-fitting than his usual (admittedly generally short and form-fitting) getup. Hopefully, Thancred will have the eyes to appreciate it. Besides, Ikael can combine this with Step two redux: Make him look.

The door opens, and he loses his train of thought.

“Come in,” Thancred says through an easy smile. He has sauce on his lower cheek. “Apologies—I’m still cooking, and I haven’t yet gotten a chance to change. I didn’t expect you this early.”

Ikael enters with some vague muttered reassurance, definitely not staring at Thancred's bare arms, or where his—is that an undershirt?—clings to his torso, or where even the loose fabric of his softpants draws tight around his thighs and calves. Most assuredly not.

It is because he is not staring (at his very good _friend_ whom he hasn’t seen in clothing like this since he had decided to bulk up, not that that is either here nor there) that his brain takes a second to catch up to what Thancred said. He stops abruptly.

“Cooking? Thancred, I said I would—” Ikael pauses, sniffing the air. Whatever Thancred is making smells _good_, that is for sure. Ikael’s mouth begins to water. He swallows it down.

“I know you said you would cook,” Thancred says as he walks to the kitchenette. “But that hardly seems fair if you’re my guest, does it? I had hoped to finish before you came so you wouldn’t bully me into letting you help, but here you are.”

He flashes Ikael a half grin. “I’ll steel myself for the bullying.”

It takes half a second, but Ikael’s natural predisposition towards… mothering—not _bullying_, arse—his friends speeds out of his mouth. “Thancred! You can’t just do all the work while I sit here and wait for you to finish! What if you burn yourself? What if you cut your finger off?”

He is already walking into the kitchenette as he speaks. Thancred watches him with a strange, oddly indulgent sort of… Ikael’s brain tells him it is a smirk, not a smile, so he ignores it on account of Thancred being an arse. “Well, what are you making?”

“I was following a recipe.” Thancred holds out a short piece of paper, and Ikael takes it with a small frown. “Here, you can take a look if you’d like. I’m sure whatever you can come up with will be better, anyhow.”

“You’re making… paella?” Ikael’s voice softens in surprise as he glances over Thancred's jot-form notes. “That’s—that’s a…”

He trails off. “A miqo’tian dish, I know,” Thancred supplies, leaning back against the wall with a small, self-conscious smile. “I’ve substituted the shrimp, of course, considering you’re near deathly allergic. Apologies if I’ve absolutely butchered it so far.”

“No, it’s… ah…” Ikael sniffs the air once more, this time with purpose. He frowns thoughtfully and goes to the pot simmering on the stovetop, stirring the ingredients to see what it contains. “It looks good, Thancred. I just… This is from where I grew up. It… it is a home food.”

“Is it? What a lucky coincidence.” Thancred's smile lifts by a fraction, although Ikael, turned away, cannot see it. “You are always making food from elsewhere for other people. Mayhaps you should consider this a message from fate telling you to please yourself for once.”

Ikael dips the nearest utensil in the pot to taste it. “You didn’t add the spices yet,” he murmurs thoughtfully.

“Ikael?” Thancred unsticks from the wall. “Did you hear what I—”

“Perfect!” Ikael spins around with a grin, already untying his apron from around his waist. Now will be a delightful opportunity to seduce Thancred as well, since they are in such close quarters! Tataru had put an extra emphasis on being in close quarters. _It’s important, Ikael_, she had said, wagging her finger sagely. _It’s where all the juiciest tension comes from_.

Well! Ikael can certainly be juicy.

They begin cooking together. Ikael gesticulates as he chatters, telling Thancred what to do, and Thancred thankfully doesn’t seem to mind being—gently, kindly, sweetly—ordered around like a line cook. Ikael sidles around him as often as he can, taking every opportunity to brush against his chest, or his back, or his arm. Oops! Ikael is _so _sorry for dropping his spoon, and no, please, he can bend down—slowly—to pick it up. Oh, there it goes again! Clumsy thing. The spoon. Ikael is not clumsy. Ikael is very dextrous, Thancred. No, he can chop the parsley just fine! Here, in fact, why doesn’t he help you?

“It’s really not that hard,” Thancred says, eyeing Ikael’s hands with something that looks too close to concern. “And this knife is sharp.”

“I’m a professional. I can chop things without cutting myself,” Ikael replies, perhaps a little testily. Then he smiles, and wheedles, “Really, let me help! Here…”

He splays his right hand over Thancred's larger one, slowly spreading his fingers. His thumb strokes over roughened skin. Thancred is—warm.

Thancred carefully lets go of the knife. He turns around and crosses his arms, breaking their contact, and then plants himself between Ikael and the counter.

He is very close. “Uh,” Ikael says to a collarbone.

“Ikael.” Thancred's tone is firm. “Alright. I wasn’t going to bring this up, but now I feel as if I have to.”

Uh oh.

“You’ve been steadying yourself with me this entire time.” Thancred begins to list things off. “There’s barely been a moment where you’re not leaning against me. You’ve stared at me blankly on at least half a dozen occasions, and you’re,” He uncrosses his arms to press the back of his hand against Ikael’s cheek. The contact is dizzying. His hand is warm still, but not sweaty. It pushes gently into Ikael’s cheek—not uncomfortable, but simply… secure. Ikael feels…

“Obviously heating up,” Thancred continues in a voice that sounds oddly self-certain. “And with the way you’re looking at me now…”

He leans down, his brown eyes searching Ikael’s. Ikael just waits, heart jumping into his throat. His lips part. He wonders if he should close his eyes.

_Obviously_, his incredible seduction plan worked. And early, too!

“… you're clearly catching ill,” Thancred finishes. He removes his hand from Ikael’s face and straightens up once more. “Why don’t you go sit down? I can finish up by myself.”

He moves away. Ikael stares after him dumbly.

“I… yeah,” he mumbles, tottering out of the kitchenette. “I’ll do that.”

~*~

_Food_ had been Ikael’s next plan.

Well, alright—because Thancred began cooking before he arrived, there is only so much he can do. But he can still lick his spoon, and try to look demure, and tug down his top to scratch at his chest because _oh,_ he is so _itchy_, and it’s hot in here, isn’t it? No, Thancred, he isn’t feeling ill. Damn it.

“Are you sure?” Thancred chooses to ask in concern just as Ikael decides to take a break from his frankly exhausting flirting and slurp at his spoon in a particularly unattractive manner.

“Oh, so _now_ you look?” Ikael mutters under his breath. To Thancred, he says with a smile, “Yes, I’m feeling perfectly fine, I’ve told you! It’s just the food, yeah? It’s hot.”

He blows at his warm-at-most food convincingly, taking the opportunity now that he has Thancred's attention to curl his tail into a flirtatious hook. Hyur understand that, right?

“I hope you are taking care not to overwork yourself,” Thancred replies, completely unresponsive to Ikael’s now somewhat desperate behaviour. “You should take a break once in a while, Ikael. Perhaps after one you will feel better.”

Oh. _Ohh._ Oh. Oh? Does this idea work only in erotic novels?

“You know, you may be right. Do you know what I could really go for?” Ikael ducks his head into his shoulder, pretending to be shy.

“Another night alone with your right hand and your imagination?” Thancred offers as he polishes off his plate.

Ikael sputters, going red. Thancred glances up at him and laughs.

“Forgive me—I couldn’t help myself. No, I doubt you had something quite so indecent in mind. What is it?”

Well.

“A-ah-a. Massage, I was going to—going to say,” Ikael stutters. Damn it all. He has to pull himself together! He can do this. “But, you know…” He sighs sadly, perhaps exaggerating the slump of his shoulders. “It costs money, and I don’t have the time to look for some place professional…”

“You could try the brothel,” Thancred suggests.

Ikael jerks his head up to glare at him. Thancred laughs again, waving it off. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just, you went all red, and… ah. Anyways. I could recommend some establishments in Ul’dah, if you’re willing to take the trip. I know my way around the more pampered of her streets.”

Ikael shrugs, drawing his shoulders up. “I-I… don’t really like the thought of a stranger putting their hands all over me,” he mumbles, which is the truth. “I-I’d rather it be a friend. But there’s no one I could ask, unle—unless you have some hidden skill as a masseur I don’t know about. Haha!”

He adds a tinkering laugh, although it is unwittingly a bit nervous. He can feel his heartbeat thudding away in his chest. Is he being too bold? But it doesn’t seem as if Thancred is going to offer, so…

“Hm.” Thancred makes a neutral noise, then stands up to take their dishes. Ikael doesn’t dare watch him as he goes to wash them, instead fixing his gaze on the salt shaker in the middle of the small dining table and hunching himself into a tense, furry ball.

He is given the fright of his ridiculous life when he feels two large hands clamp down on either side of his neck. He yelps, jumping in his chair, and the hands squeeze. Firmly.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Thancred's voice rumbles from very, very close by. His hands begin to knead, digging into the tightness below Ikael’s neck before pushing it out, slow and confident. “My, you’re right—you _do _need a massage. You’re wound tighter than a lala-in-a-box.”

Ikael makes an indecipherable, not altogether intelligent noise. “Please touch me everywhere,” he mumbles into his own collar.

He registers what he has said a second after the words leave his mouth. He starts to stammer and correct himself—for once, he _hadn’t_ meant that as a flirtation—but stops when he hears Thancred's light laugh.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. If it was a genuine request, we could move to somewhere more comfortable for it. I have a bathing oil I could use that does not smell too strongly, and a few extra towels. Not ideal, but it will do.”

“Ah—ah, now?” Ikael licks his lips. He hadn’t expected this. He is wearing undergarments that are a little… well. They are a barely more comfortable version of the stringed strip of fabric he had worn for their card game the other day. Not that… it is bad if Thancred sees the clothing he had specifically picked out to be seen in. It is just…

Thancred's hands pause. “If you do not wish to, then of course we do not—”

“No! No, of course. Now is fine! Haha.” Ikael slithers off his chair before he can give in to his weakness and dash out the door. Thancred is not intimidating! Thancred is Thancred. Ikael knows him! He is clever and witty and… strong, and muscular, and he has firm, callused hands, Ikael knows now, and he smells like vanilla and faintly like gunpowder even without his armour, and overall he is terribly attractive in every way. Ikael is doomed.

_Maybe if he rubs his hands all over you with his bathing oil you’ll smell like him too_, his nasally internal voice suggests. Ikael tells it to shut up.

He rubs at his arms as he follows Thancred into what turns out to be his bedroom. It may just be his natural pessimism, but it seems like this will all be _hells_ for Ikael, and not that bothersome at all for Thancred, really. He probably wont _ever_ think about Ikael in a non-platonic way, he bemoans. Ikael isn’t attractive enough to be… attractable. Ikael is just Ikael.

_Don’t say that about yourself!_ he scolds himself internally._ You are a decadent morsel! He should be beside himself at the opportunity to touch you!_

“Undress to comfort,” Thancred says.

Ikael blinks at him rapidly, jerked out of his daydream. “Wh—what?” he stammers, flushing.

There is a clean undyed towel resting on Thancred's bed—_Thancred's bed! Gods_—and the man himself is holding an unremarkable bottle, looking at Ikael expectantly. Had he gotten all of that while Ikael had been standing in the middle of the room like a fool, thinking to himself? Twelve preserve him.

“You don’t have to take anything off if you do not want to,” Thancred assures him, apparently misunderstanding his shock (still, it makes Ikael untense a little, and he does not know why). “Although I would recommend shoes and socks, at least. I will only touch skin, so do whatever you wish.”

Right. Trying not to seem too stiff and self-conscious (but forgetting to attempt to be seductive, for a reason that escapes him), Ikael takes off his clothing. He steps out of his brais last, then stands there with his arms hugged tightly to his chest, gooseflesh prickling his limbs.

Thancred raises an eyebrow at his choice of undergarment, but doesn’t comment on it. He gestures towards the bed.

Ikael awkwardly climbs on, laying down on his stomach and reaching underneath to readjust the towel when it bunches up. He tugs his tail out of the way, looping the tip around his wrist.

The first light touch of fingertips against his shoulder blades make him jump. The touch lifts, and Ikael feels a weight settle beside him on the bed.

“Are you alright?” Thancred sounds concerned. “We do not have to do this if you don’t want to, I hope you know.”

“I’m—I’m fine!” Ikael tries to chirp. “A-ah. Really.”

There is a pause. Then, “You can relax. It’s all right,” Thancred's voice turns low and soothing, like he—like he expects Ikael is some sort of frightened kit! It makes the knot in his stomach uncurl, yes, but that does not—that does not matter. Ikael’s ears fold down, and Thancred's voice rolls softer.

“Truly. I would do naught to make you uncomfortable, my friend. Just tell me anytime if there is any place you do not wish me to touch, and I shall avoid it.”

“My—my tail,” Ikael mumbles into the pillow beneath his head. “At the—a-at the top. You can touch the rest of it, but not where it connects. Is that—is that okay?”

“Of course, Ikael.” Thancred's thumbs rub soothing circles over his upper back, and he untenses a fraction despite himself. Thancred doesn’t even ask why, or make a suggestive comment, only keeps slowly rubbing him. “Are you ready for me to begin? I promise I will treat you with only the utmost care.”

Ikael considers, then nods hesitantly. He hears a pleased hum, and Thancred's touch leaves him.

He hears the bottle of oil opening before he can do something embarrassing like beg it to come back. A minute later it does, this time wet and sweet-smelling. Ikael’s eyes flutter shut.

Thancred's thumbs dig into either side of his spine, then slowly slide upwards, still pressing. They spread out as they near his shoulders. Move back down. Repeat. And so it continues.

Ikael forgets his nervous—his… _delayed eagerness_—as Thancred goes on, and soon begins to relax. This feels… very nice. Thancred has talented hands (in _every_ way that matters, Ikael thinks to himself with a shy giggle) and he is not only skillfully dextrous with them, but firm and forceful where he needs to be. Ikael may or may not make an embarrassing noise when those callused fingers dig _just_ _so_ into a sore spot on his lower back.

“Y’should do this... profess’lly,” Ikael informs Thancred, very clearly, when his hands finally shift to his legs.

“I did, for a time.” Thancred's fingertips flit over his skin before settling on his calves and digging in. He kneads, pushing his palm into the muscle. “’Tis why I offered, in fact.”

“Mguh,” Ikael mumbles.

“I had an infiltration mission once involving a luxurious resort spa in Ul’dah,” Thancred continues conversationally. The pleasant scent of the oil, sweet and earthy, wafts to Ikael’s nose. “Clients were right bastards, but I got to shank one in the end, so it all turned out for the best.”

“Did you ever…” Ikael’s response is delayed by a long minute. “Mm. Give anyone a happy ending?”

The question, despite its nature, is innocent and genuinely curious. Thancred is Ikael’s friend, after all, which means they chat a lot, and it is not as if all of their conversations are child-friendly. When Ryne isn’t around, at least. Or awake.

Thancred huffs out a chuckle from his chest. “Yes. It was in their best interest, is what I would have told you had you asked me to justify it back then. Truthfully, I saw my opportunity, and I took it. But I did no harm—I asked permission when it was not given aforehand, took nothing in return, and they left sated. A happy transaction on all accounts.”

Sated. Ikael’s eyes open. Thancred has… touched people like this with the intent to pleasure them. With the intent to give them _orgasms_. Oh, Twelve. And now he is touching Ikael, sliding his hands down his legs with a surety that dries out his mouth now that he thinks about it in that context. Wait, what is wrong with him? That is the _point_ of this idea! Ikael can… ask for an orgasm.

His pulse is suddenly racing. Oh gods. Is this it? Is Thancred waiting for him to ask? If he does, will he say yes? Oh gods. Thancred is _right here_. He is _touching_ Ikael. Almost intimately. It could _be_ intimately.

“Relax,” Thancred rumbles, although he cannot possibly feel the heat shivering down Ikael’s throat or gathering between his legs. “As I’ve said, my intentions are pure. I will not so much as look at you where you do not want me to. Now stop tensing up and undoing all my hard work.”

He squeezes Ikael’s foot. There is a smile in his voice, although Ikael is less concerned about his words and more about how he can press his thighs together without Thancred noticing. His toes twitch with the repressed effort. They get gently squeezed.

“You can turn on your back if you’d like, or we could stop here,” Thancred says eventually. His hands have returned to Ikael’s lower back, lightly tracing circles near the curve in his spine, albeit away from his tail.

Ikael hoists himself up on his elbows, and then slowly turns over. He sinks into the bed, trying not to make it too obvious that he is watching Thancred.

His gaze catches nonetheless, and he gets a small smile. “Boo,” Thancred says, wiggling wet fingers at him. It is enough to make Ikael wheeze out a startled laugh. Thancred flashes him a grin as he squirts more oil into his palm.

“I thought I would do your arms when you are face up, so it is easier for you to pull away if you want to.” Thancred rubs his hands together, then gently grasps Ikael’s right arm, pulling it into his lap. “Look at me for a second, luv. There we go.”

He lifts Ikael’s head, adjusting his pillow so it rests more comfortably. Ikael is caught on _luv_. “A-ah,” he says.

Thankfully, Thancred seems to be on the same page as him. “Sorry, old habit,” he says brusquely. He begins to work Ikael’s shoulder, encircling it with his hands.

“From your happy ending days?” Ikael manages to ask. For some reason, the words are difficult to get out.

Thancred's eyes lock onto his. Ikael’s mouth instantly turns drier than the Sagolii desert.

Then Thancred is glancing away, back down to his hands. “You could say that,” is all he says.

He works along Ikael's arm. The skin on his forearms is more sensitive, close to his hands as it is, and Ikael can feel the texture of every stroke of Thancred's touch, ever downwards drag. It is probably why it becomes less firm than before and more feathery, more delicate. When he trails one cautious finger up the vein on Ikael’s forearm to his inner wrist, it causes a full body shudder.

Thancred stops. “Do you want me to do your hands?” he asks.

“A-a-ah,” Ikael says.

“I ask because you seem quite…” Thancred brushes his thumb right over the base of Ikael’s palm. His fingers spasm. “… sensitive.”

Oh gods. Oh gods. Ikael swallows dryly, ignoring the tackiness of his throat. “I-I am. There. Mayb—maybe move on to. Somewhere else.”

Thancred nods, pulling away. _You fool!_ Ikael shrieks at himself, even as Thancred gently lays his arm back to his side and shifts down the bed. _Tell him to keep going! What if it leads to something? What if he takes your fingers into his m—_

Ikael clenches his thighs firmly together. Thancred, now kneeling over his shins, pauses.

_Oh, shite_, Ikael thinks.

“… I’ll just do your calves again,” Thancred murmurs, taking his right one between his hands. Moving Ikael’s legs as little as he can, he pinches the muscles between his thumb and fingers, pushing down and then out.

Ikael hadn’t noticed it earlier (because he had been facedown in a pillow and also drooling), but the way Thancred is crouched over him means that his face is… incredibly close. To… Ikael’s legs, of course. And connecting areas.

Thancred's questing fingers drift up to Ikael’s knee, then pause. “May I?” he asks, low and ever so gentlemanly.

He wants to open Ikael’s legs. Oh gods. Ikael gnaws at the inside of his cheek for a solid five seconds, takes half a deep breath, and spreads them himself.

It is because he is watching Thancred's face—so close, he is so _close_—that he sees his nostrils flare, just barely. He says nothing, and his face, even before he tilts it down, reveals nothing, but it is enough for realization to trickle into Ikael’s mind like sweet, glacial ice water.

Oh no. Can Thancred—smell him? Even worse, can Thancred _see?_

Oh, gods. Oh, Thaliak’s fat, hairy right testicle. The thought—that Thancred knows he’s aroused, that he can smell it, can see a damp spot on Ikael’s barely-there smalls (and damn him for _that_ idea), that he is so close and he isn’t saying anything and he’s given people orgasms from this before and he is working his way up Ikael’s _thigh_—one thought leads to the next, and they all do absolutely nothing to save poor Ikael from his own body.

Fuck.

“You’re tense again.” Thancred speaks up. His hands pause, and he seems to be deliberating before he adds, uncharacteristically hesitant, “It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

Oh, _gods_.

“It’s a natural reaction. Nothing to worry about,” Thancred continues to assure in a low, easy tone. It is too late. Ikael is already dead—he has set himself on fire from the inside. Thancred is rubbing at his burnt husk of a corpse. “Truly, Ikael. This sort of thing happens all the time, and with how long we’ve been going on, ‘tis only expected. Do you wish for me to continue, or do you want to stop here?”

Ikael is _mortified_. It takes a second to register that Thancred has asked him a question, and is probably expecting him to answer. Somehow. Ikael doesn’t even think his mouth _works_ right now.

_Ask him about ‘happy endings’ again_, that annoying little voice taunts. _Go on, do it_. _See where it gets you this time_.

“Ikael?” Thancred begins to draw away. Ikael makes an involuntary noise, drawing his legs together to trap his escaping hand.

He realizes what he’s done a beat later, and his eyes widen. He doesn’t dare look at Thancred's face as he hurriedly jerks his legs back open. He barely registers the hand lingering for a moment before drawing away, as untense as it was when it was trapped. He is too preoccupied with thoughts of _Oh, shite, fuckballs arse bastard bloody thick swivving cock_. Then he is thinking about _Thancred's_ swiv—

He squeezes his eyes shut, tightly. Maybe if he does it for long enough the mattress will swallow him up and end his wretched existence.

“You can... use my shower if you like,” Thancred calls after an indeterminate amount of time, during which Ikael is still very much alive and miserable. He sounds far away—shockingly so considering how close they have been for the past… however long. It feels like forever. Ikael dares to crack open an eye.

Thancred is standing by a closet, rifling through it. His back is to Ikael. “That towel won’t do you any good, but I have an extra, I believe. Do you want to borrow some spare clothes? What you were wearing seems a bit uncom—”

“I’m fine I’ll go home now I think,” Ikael babbles. He lurches upright, and the room swims, but he is already clambering off the bed and clumsily grabbing his clothes. “It’s fine really I’m fine thanks for the massage Thancred you’re great you have great hands I mean gods oh. I’m going to go.”

He vaguely registers Thancred turning towards him, with some facial expression that Ikael most definitely does not want to see. “Are you… Are you alright, Ikael? You seem—”

“I’m fine!” Ikael says shrilly. He yanks open the door and all but falls out of the room. The difference in the air alone feels like a slap to the face. “Really I’m fine I’m going to go now goodbye! Lovely to—lovely to see you.”

He is at the main door by the time he has tugged his brais on, and it feels terrible with all the oil but at this very moment he cannot bring himself to care. Then he yanks at the handle, and his hands aren’t slippery because Thancred hadn’t touched him there but they are sweaty because he had touched him everywhere else and he is—calling Ikael’s name right now but Ikael ignores him and now he is—

Gone.

It is only when he gets back to his suite and is undressing himself to bathe that he realizes that his undergarment, although barely more modest than the first one, really is quite _scant_. Thancred had been able to see practically his bare arse cheeks for the entire time he’d been on his stomach.

Oh, _gods._

~*~

Step three: Make him jealous.

_Tataru winks conspiratorially. “Now if you make it here, you’re already done with the hard part. Once you’ve got his attention, you need to play hard to get.”_

_Ikael doesn’t understand. “Why would I want to be hard to get if I want to get him to want me? That seems counterproductive.”_

_“What?” says Tataru. Then, shaking her head, “No, no. It’s not about showing him what he _can_ have, Ikael. It’s about making him chase! And it’s good fun. The more you dangle yourself in front of him, the more he’ll want you. Men want what they can’t have, it’s simple logic! Trust me, I’ve done my read—I mean, my research.” _

Ikael supposes he doesn’t know if he had truly succeeded at Step two: Make him look. But he had certainly give Thancred plenty to look at, and unless he is going to strip himself bare arsed naked—all the way, this time—there isn’t much more he can do. So he is going to consider it as much of a success as it needs to be in order for him to move past it.

Conveniently, it is Thancred that goes to Ikael first. Tataru was right about something! This means Ikael is on the right track, he is certain. It is the following afternoon, and he is busy staring off into space and doing nothing when he is interrupted by a knock on his suite door.

He opens it to see Thancred, back in his regular clothing and with normal, non-oily hands. He gives Ikael a smile, although it is small.

“Good afternoon,” he says. “May I come in?”

Ikael nods, ducking his head into his chest. Thancred enters, closing the door behind himself carefully, and then pulls up a chair. He settles into it with a sigh.

“Please,” he says, gesturing to another one. Ikael perches on the table in front of him, eyeing him curiously.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, anxious. Is this where Thancred calls him a lascivious whore and tells him that he can never trust him again and they will have to stop being friends? Oh no. Ikael certainly hopes not.

“Everything is…” Thancred frowns. “Well, no. Everything isn’t quite peachy keen, I’m afraid. I came to ask if _you_ were alright, actually. I was worried after you ran off like that last night. You seemed quite upset.”

Upset? Ikael was not—Ikael was—

“I-I-I wasn’t upset,” he says convincingly.

Thancred quirks an eyebrow. “Really? What did you do when you got back here, then? Wind down with some light reading? Perhaps take a relaxing bath?”

Ikael had sat in a tub full of slowly cooling water for two full bells and then had had the most confusing half miserable and half horny masturbation session he has ever had before passing out naked in his bed. But he isn’t going to tell Thancred_ that_.

“U-uh,” he stutters.

“That’s what I thought.” Thancred sighs. He reaches for the empty fruit bowl on the tabletop, sending it spinning with a flick of his—dextrous, very skilled, gods—fingers.

He stops it, then looks Ikael in the eye. “Ikael, I feel as if I should sincerely apologize. I was never my intention to make you uncomfortable, and I clearly crossed a line with my conduct last night. So from the bottom of my heart, I am so very sorry. It will never happen again.”

He bows his head. Ikael gapes at him, confused and a little worried from that last sentence. What won’t ever happen again? Thancred being nice to him and talking to him, making jokes? Thancred letting himself be drooled over as if he is some—some lustful hero on the cover of one of Tataru’s romance novels? Oh…

“I-I-I don’t really know what you mean, I am sorry.” Ikael looks down at his hands, wedged in between his thighs. “I do not think you did anything wrong. But I—I was being very disgusting. I-I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear, a-and I—and I know you’re so much more—I know you’re—"

Thancred stops him with a hand on his knee. Ikael blinks at him, face tight with anxiety, and his serious expression loosens somewhat.

“Ikael. You had an involuntary reaction, one that was completely natural and expected. Even if it hadn’t been, it would have been fine. I promise you, I took absolutely no offense and was certainly not disgusted. What is wrong is that you clearly felt cornered, enough that you’re _still_ panicked about it. It was my fault for not making sure you felt safe, and for that I am sorry.”

Ikael’s face pinches up. “I don’t—” He is not panicked. He is fine! He is golden. Is Thancred judging him by his stutter? That is normal. Ikael’s voice simply does that sometimes. For no reason. “I-I don’t… think the last part is right. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeats doggedly. “Anyways, I-I-I… was going to ask you if you wanted to go out to the tavern with—with me. To drink. Alcohol.”

He needs to set Step three: Make him jealous into motion, after all. And a tavern is the best place to find a lot of people that are drunk enough to respond in kind when Ikael flirts with them. It is perfect.

Thancred looks at him for a long moment, and then gives him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “To solve our joint problems together, is that it? Ha, it’s as good a resolution as any.”

He stands up. Ikael does as well, still confused, not knowing what is wrong and what he can do to fix it. Thancred makes to leave, heading for the door, but Ikael tugs at the back of his coat.

“Where are you—where are you going?” he asks softly.

Thancred turns around. Ikael, directly behind him, has to pull his head back to avoid getting knocked in the nose. But now they are close, very close, and Ikael can smell the cloth and the life and the breath of him. He can feel, very faintly, the heat his body exudes.

Not aware of what exactly is making him do it, he presses a hand to Thancred's chest. Out in the Crystarium, his armour is leather, lighter and easier to wear around all day. His breast rises, then falls. Rises again. Falls. Ikael curls his fingers, entranced.

Thancred says nothing for a long moment. Then, slowly, his hand covers Ikael’s. He brushes over the back of it with his thumb before gently removing it.

“Come on, Ikael,” he says quietly, turning back around. “Let’s go.”

~*~

Ikael thinks this is going _very_ well.

It turns out he is a hit with the locals! He only has to flash the words _Warrior of Darkness_, and pose and preen and, oops! He’s dropped his hairpin, how clumsy of him. He will pick it up, no worries! Very slowly.

He has attracted quite a few lingering glances, and has done his best to return them with a giggle and a flirtatious gesture. Why, he has hooked his tail at no less than _four_ people today! Imagine that! Ikael is a right strumpet.

Thancred hasn’t left their table. He has been nursing a small tankard since they had arrived, although Ikael hasn’t seen him take more than a sip or two. He isn’t too far away—Tataru had said to make sure Ikael was in line of sight, so Thancred could see everything that was going on—but Ikael cannot tell if he is actually watching him or not.

More concerningly, he hasn’t done anything… _jealous_. He has simply been sitting there this entire time. Doing nothing. Barely drinking.

Ikael feels… Well, alright. Ikael is perhaps more worried about Thancred's mood than he is about his as of yet nonexistent jealousy. He wishes he could do something to cheer him up. Perhaps… perhaps Thancred would feel better if Ikael flirted with him, too?

No, he cannot. That defeats the purpose of Step three: Make him jealous.

Ikael marches over to him anyways.

“Thancred,” he says, arching his hands on his hips.

Thancred glances up on him. “Ikael,” he returns with a nod. His eyes move behind Ikael. “… Admirers.”

“The Warrior of Darkness is so _handsome!_” someone croons. There are titters.

“Enjoying the attention?” Thancred quips as Ikael sits across from him, squatting on a chair. “I’m surprised you’re indulging in it, honestly. Did you decide to take my advice?”

Ikael cocks his head. What advice? “These people are—all very attracted to me,” he tells Thancred, in case he hadn’t noticed.

Thancred inclines his head. “Evidently.”

“And—and—I’m sure a few of them want to sleep with me.” Ikael lowers his voice at the last few words. He debates for a second, and then adds a furtive wink.

Thancred gives the small crowd behind him a cursory scan. “I don’t doubt it,” he replies.

Ikael suppresses a downwards tug of his mouth. This cannot be how Thancred is supposed to respond. Does this not make him jealous? More importantly, why is he upset? Can Ikael do anything about it?

He switches tactics. “There’s some… lint on your collar,” he breathes extra seductively. He slowly leans forwards to brush it off, sticking his arse out and crooking his tail _just_ so.

Thancred's hand closes around his wrist.

Ikael looks up, startled into making eye contact. Thancred's gaze freezes him, stops his breath in his throat. Then it _burns_. Ikael barely registers the small shift in the position of Thancred's fingers, doesn’t notice the sharpening of those brown eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Thancred's thumb moves to brush against the base of Ikael’s palm. His eyes fix him in place, pinning him down as if he is a butterfly ready to be studied and dissected. Exposed to the unknown.

Ikael’s pulse ratchets up faster than he thought was possible. Some strange, unnamed feeling makes him swallow, and the shiver it sends down his throat is... oddly sharp. His ears move against his skull, shifting through his hair.

And then all of a sudden, it is over. Thancred lets him go. He pushes back his chair, standing in one fluid motion.

“I fear I must be going,” he says, low and smooth. Ikael’s lips move, shake, but no sound comes out.

Thancred quirks half a smile at him. “Apologies, my friend. And might I mention that that’s a good trick, with the hairpin. It may even work.”

Then he is out the door, his gait steady and sure and—gone.

~*~

Thancred is not attracted to him.

It is the pathetic conclusion Ikael has come to, alone and sad in his room. It makes him disappointed, on a physical level—if the entire point of this plan is for Ikael to sleep with someone, he has been wasting his time, and will have to start all over again with someone else. But more so it makes him feel—

A little humiliated.

It is a difficult emotion to simply swallow and smile around while it drips, acrid, down his throat. But it is not as if Ikael is unused to it. He has a million traits that are easy pickings, he knows: his speech, his mannerisms, his intellect, and his Eorzean vocabulary not least amongst them. He is used to ignoring their shame. It never comes from the people who care about him, so it never comes from anyone who matters, he tells himself. And it is not like Thancred has ever done it. He still has not.

Ikael just hates the feeling that he has been shoving himself in Thancred’s face so loudly and obnoxiously he hadn’t been able to recognize a simple “no.”

Thancred had never said it directly, of course. But his reaction at the tavern had been clear as daylight, enough for even Ikael, in all his obtuseness, to see. What makes it worse is that he understands why. What does he have to offer someone like Thancred? Thancred is—Thancred is so much—he is bright, and so clever, and witty, and charming, and he is really very sweet at times. He is attractive in all the ways Ikael is not. He even has _swagger_. Like Y'shtola. Ikael does not know where people get swagger, but so far he has not been able to find any. He just sort of… trips along instead.

The point of the matter is, Ikael is unattractive and inadequate and desperate. _But,_ he is good at sucking cock. And Thancred has been so busy lately, and now his mood is very low because of Ikael, and surely someone like him is accustomed to using meaningless sex as a balm for such issues? Ikael will go to him, he has decided, and offer his body—not expectant of reciprocation, of course—for free, with a reassurance that he will not get off on it. And if Thancred turns him down even then, he will apologize profusely for his entire existence and also for being anywhere in Thancred's proximity ever.

That sounds good to him.

Step four, Ikael thinks as he frowns at himself in the mirror: Turn into a sex toy.

He takes the ears off. Hyur have such strange fetishes in relation to miqo’te and viera, he muses. Really, there is nothing in this outfit that he can use except for the stockings. How is he supposed to look sexy? He has never done it on purpose before. He may have to… Oh!

A bell and a quarter later, he is trying on a most gracious gift from the Beehive. Or attempting to try on, at least. The outfit isn’t made up of fabric so much as it is made up of _rope_. At least there is a little patch for Ikael’s—Well. For Ikael’s bumblebee.

He pulls on the stockings—the netting is uncomfortable against his skin, but it is apparently supposed to make him look sexy—and decides to wear the shoes from the viera fetish outfit as well. He studies himself in the mirror with a critical frown, turning about to see if the full effect is anything worth getting off to.

He sighs. He will let Thancred be the judge of that, he supposes. He slips on his favourite robe (a soft pink knee-length one Lyse had given him for his nameday), grabs his apology pie, and heads off to Thancred's apartment. There is no use in delaying this. For better or for worse, Ikael will settle this whole matter before the end of the day.

Thancred is in, luckily. Whatever business he had must have been quick. He looks tired, which Ikael does not like, and the short smile he puts on is small and ingenuine.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Ikael?” he greets.

Ikael thrusts his pie towards him. “I baked you an apology pie also can I come in please Thancred.”

“Of course.” Thancred takes the pie, stepping back so he can enter. “Please, have a seat. What is this about the pie? It smells heavenly.”

Ikael sits neatly on the arm of the nearest chair. “I baked you a pie,” he says, “As an apology. For…”

He looks down. Thancred, perhaps sensing the incoming conversation, goes to the kitchenette to put the pie away, and then slowly seats himself opposite Ikael.

“Ikael,” he begins.

Ikael shakes his head, frowning. “Please. I need to say this, yeah? I-I need to. Apologize. To you. For the way I’ve been… for the way I’ve been acting.”

Thancred is regarding him with something strange and unknowable swimming in his eyes. There is resignation in his voice when he says, “There is no need to explain yourself to me.”

“No, there is,” Ikael insists. “I-I just wanted to apologize for being. For being so—so—so—”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He lets it out very slowly, holding his hands out in front of himself and splaying his fingers wide. He opens his eyes.

“I am sorry for throwing myself at you the way I have been doing,” he says mutedly. He is looking at Thancred's carpet. It is ratty, and not very soft-looking at all, and really an awful reddish-brown colour. He hears Thancred open his mouth as if to speak, and keeps talking so he cannot, speeding up. “You were saying something earlier about making me uncomfortable, but it is clear that _I_ have made _you_ uncomfortable. I-I-I wish I could say that I did not mean anything by it, but I cannot. Because I did.”

He starts to pick at his hands. “I just want you to know that I respect you very much. A-and I didn’t really think you would ever want to sleep with me, but I kept going with the plan anyways. I am sorry for making you see my clothes and touch me everywhere and that I had bad reactions. They were unintended. And I am sorry for dragging you somewhere just to try and make you jealous and instead make the whole thing so bad that you did not even smile once when you were there. You have a very lovely smile, and I wish I could see it more often.”

His gaze has wandered off to his knee. What was he saying, again? He needs to apologize for something else. Anything will do. Perhaps for not knocking properly on the door, or for existing in general.

“Ah, may I talk?” Thancred speaks up. Ikael glances at him. He is holding up a hand as if to make a point, and he is—smiling, a little. It makes Ikael smile back, although he does so nervously, and it comes out watery.

“… I will take that as a yes. So. I don’t quite know where to start with that, if I’m being honest. How about this: you say you ‘kept going with the plan?’ What plan?”

Oh. “U-um,” Ikael mumbles, now keeping his gaze very studiously fixed on the ugly carpet, “I-I-I made a plan. With Tataru.”

There is a beat of silence. “Go on,” Thancred drawls. His voice has suddenly taken on a dramatically different cadence.

“Well…” Ikael fidgets on the chair. He drops into the seat fully, the better to guard himself from Thancred's knowing gaze. “It was to—it was to—get me into… bed with someone. A-anyone. We decided on you.”

“‘_We?_’” Thancred's tone spikes into the territory of heavy irony. “I was not aware that busy-bodying her way into my sex life was _so_ critically important to Tataru’s management of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.” He over-enunciates each word of their title. “Well, this explains a lot.”

He leans back in his chair, uncrossing his arms. Ikael dares an anxious look up at him, and gets a serpentine smile in return. “Please, _do_ elaborate. Spare me no details.”

“O-okay.” Ikael draws his tail into his lap, petting it. Slowly, at first hesitantly and then growing more at ease as he keeps talking, he begins to outline to Thancred how The Seduction Plan had formed, its steps, and his own attempts to execute them. Through a lot of backtracking, gesturing, and surprisingly little stammering, he manages to give, he privately thinks, a very thorough account of everything. Hopefully, when he tells Tataru this part later, she will be very proud of him.

“I see,” Thancred says finally. He had shifted closer to Ikael as he had talked, and Ikael himself is now perched on the edge of his seat, comfortable from Thancred's very attentive listening. He had nodded and _hmm_’d in all the right places! Ikael has never had anyone listen to him that well and for that long. What a dear.

“So you mean to say that throwing yourself all over half a dozen people at the tavern earlier was an attempt to get _my _attention? It seems rather counterproductive, if you ask me.”

“That’s what I said!” Ikael cries, throwing his hands out. “I said, no Tataru, I do not see the point in playing ‘_hard to get_,’” He makes large quotation marks with his fingers, “if he does not have me at all! But she said, nooo, Ikael, he will be _very_ frustrated and it will make it even better when he finally takes you. And she said—she said, _ohh_, Ikael, possessive men are the _best_ in bed. But I do not think that is true! I think that sounds like slavery.”

He finishes his train of thought somewhat jankily, because now that he says it out loud, it sounds a bit odd. But no matter—Thancred is nodding at him again, so he must be making some sort of sense.

“Truly, you are a philosopher.” Thancred makes a considering face. “Well, I will tell you this now: I am not by nature a jealous man, so that step of your plan was unlikely to work. Although if you want me to act possessive in bed, there is naught you must do but ask.”

“Haha!” Ikael scratches at an itchy spot on his wrist. “Ah, anyways, now you know. I am sorry again for being so embarrassing.”

He gives Thancred a very genuine, contrite look. Thancred says, “No need for any apologies. And I do not think you embarrassed yourself at all. Can we talk about that now?”

Ikael blinks at him. “Talk about what?”

Thancred gives him an odd, grim sort of smile. “About your attraction to me, and the fact that it scared you so badly that in your desperation to prove you had control over it, you ran away and threw yourself at complete strangers for half an afternoon.”

Ikael, in what is definitely not his most shining star moment, forgets how to breathe. His knuckles tremble, very lightly.

Thancred sighs. “Still scared, then,” he says softly. His voice is oddly quiet. “That is too bad. Very well. Whenever you are ready, I will be right here.”

“Wai—wait,” Ikael says as he rises. “Wait, Thancred! Where are you going?”

Thancred, now just past him, glances down. “Let’s see. First to eat some of that pie you baked for me, and then off to grab a drink or two, perhaps. I certainly need it. I am assuming from your shoes that you already have plans for the evening? Has one of your adoring fans offered you their night?”

Ikael hastily gets up as well, balancing himself on Thancred's arm when said shoes nearly trip him. Thancred is already reaching out to steady him. “Oh, thank you. Thancred, I—I came here to ask you something.”

Thancred sighs. For the first time in the evening, his eyes drift away from Ikael’s, settling somewhere around the realm of his shoulder. “If it is about your behaviour, then save your breath. No, Ikael, I was not offended, I did not believe you were acting shamefully, and I most certainly did not think any less of you. You are a dear friend, and while I did think you were behaving oddly, I would never judge you for it. Besides, you are an odd sort of fellow, so it did not seem too out of the ordinary…”

He keeps talking. Ikael is fiddling with the clasp on his robe, frowning down at it. It is stuck on one of those damned straps.

“… and frankly, I am guilty of it myself. You should ask Y'shtola about the shite I used to try on her—it was much less respectful, and a lot less welcome. In fact, I don’t think there was _ever_ a time when my advances were—”

Ikael drops his robe.

Thancred stops talking.

“I came here to offer you my body,” Ikael explains. “As part of my apology. Or just my mouth, if you would like. Either way, it is my fault you are in such a lousy mood, so I wanted to make it up to you.”

“Hells below,” Thancred says faintly. He is staring.

“Thancred, are you alright?” Ikael asks in concern, after a few seconds have passed and he has said nothing else. Thancred jerks a little at his name, his eyes skittering back up to meet Ikael’s. “Oh, your face is all red! Maybe you should go lie down, yeah? I hope you are not ill.”

“Perhaps you should have simply… skipped the first three steps of your plan. Just a thought. You would have gotten results a lot faster,” Thancred suggests.

His voice sounds oddly tight, as if he is speaking around a sore throat. Oh, Ikael certainly hopes he is not ill! That would be horrid.

“Thancred, I am very serious,” he says, tapping Thancred on the cheek when his eyes try to run away. It earns him a short, strangled noise. “I know you think you are immune to getting sick, but that is simply not true! You need to sleep more, I keep telling you. And drink more water. I am going to make you soup now, alright?”

“Sorry,” Thancred interrupts, “What did you just say?”

Ikael’s brow furrows further. “I am going to make you soup,” he pronounces carefully.

Thancred waves his hand impatiently. “No, no, before that. The thing about… offering your body? Is that what you—?”

He breaks off to address his ceiling light, tipping his head upwards. “Menphina grant me strength,” he pleads to it.

The straps over Ikael’s rear are slowly shifting downwards, which means his arse cheeks are threatening to hang out, bare to the world. He adjusts them as discreetly as he can.

Thancred immediately startles to the movement. He watches as Ikael awkwardly fumbles, staring until his hand inches back to his side. A second ticks by. Then he bares his teeth, looks Ikael in the eye, and glares.

“You caught me off _guard_,” he hisses. He sounds a little desperate. “This is unfair. I am a trained professional. I’ve kept my composure throughout this entire ridiculous affair, even through that bloody _massage_, and now you just…”

He trails off. Ikael has reached down to scratch between his legs, because he is itchy.

“Gods, I am doomed,” Thancred mumbles in resignation.

“Is there something wrong with your voice?” Ikael is concerned. “You sound like you have a sore throat. I really do think you should go sit down and let me make you soup.”

Thancred lolls his head back and lets out a dry, scratchy laugh. Ikael adds cough medicine to his mental shopping list.

“I do not know whether you are being oblivious, polite, or are in denial,” Thancred replies. “Fine, let me spell it out for you: your plan may have backfired, but it still worked. Hells, you didn’t even need a bleeding plan to begin with, Ikael. And I don’t know what the purpose of this—of this _outfit_ is—”

He stops. “I just stuttered,” he says softly, as if in disbelief.

Ikael… may be slowly understanding that Thancred is not, in fact, sick (he will make him soup anyways, though). “Wait,” he says.

Thancred looks at him dolefully.

Ikael’s brain is quickly catching up. He might not be the fastest at figuring things out, but he is good at the rest of it. “Wait, you are—you are _attracted _to me?” His eyes grow wide. “Truly? Are you sure? No, you are just saying that to be nice.”

“Ikael, I am not made of _stone_,” Thancred groans. “And I don’t know what other reaction I am supposed to have when you—Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Gods, I give up. Check for yourself, if you must.”

Ikael looks down. Thancred's trousers are made of some thick, coarse material, and even though he has taken his armour off, it is difficult to make out much shape. He had said to check, however, and since Ikael cannot see, he reaches out and presses a hand to his abdomen.

He feels as much as he sees Thancred's intake of breath. He is warm, and tense beneath Ikael’s hand. Ikael strokes softly, meaning to soothe, but he only tenses further.

Ikael glances up, worried. He opens his mouth, but Thancred nods before he can ask for permission, then swallows.

“Go ahead,” he says thickly.

Ikael does, rubbing his thumb in one last attempt to ease the muscle beneath—it earns him a small quiver—before sliding his hand lower. He inwardly grimaces at the texture of the cloth, pushes past nonetheless to feel the form beneath, and—feels. Something.

“Oh,” he says, surprised.

“Yes, ‘oh,’” Thancred agrees hoarsely. Ikael removes his hand.

Thancred huffs, flashing teeth. “Twelve, you really did not notice anything at all, did you? There wasn’t a single moment when you stopped panicking about your own reaction enough to try and observe mine.”

“You just said you were keeping your composure!” Ikael protests. “Of course I did not notice anything! You could have at least tried to be a _little_ more obvious.”

“Ah yes, of course. How unfair of me to never entertain the possibility that you were following a step-by-step plan you concocted with our receptionist to climb into my bed. Apologies for not playing along.”

“I forgive you,” Ikael says generously. Thancred snorts, closing his eyes.

“Anyways,” he says as he opens them. His voice is low. “Therein lies your evidence. Your plan succeeded. Why don’t you claim your prize?”

He leans in closer. Ikael says, “Oh, I do not think it succeeded at all. It backfired quite magnificently, actually, so I have already given up on it. I am just waiting for you to tell me whether you want me to suck your cock or not, and then I think I will go shopping for soup things.”

From this distance, he can see the skin around Thancred's eyes tighten as he suppresses some instinctive reaction. Ikael smiles congenially, hoping to ease some of the tension in the set of his shoulders. He leans forwards. Thancred's gaze flicks down and up again. His throat bobs.

“Do you want butternut squash or tomato?” Ikael asks.

He startles as Thancred drops his head onto his chest and swears, violently. Half a minute later he is still going, so Ikael pats the back of his head consolingly.

“You have such a potty mouth,” he scolds.

“My mouth is good for other things,” Thancred mumbles into the strap above Ikael’s nipples. “No, you know what? Never mind. You’ll probably find a way to think that is about soup too. Gods.”

He inhales, and lets his breath out as a long, very quiet groan. Ikael keeps patting him, crooning softly in response. To himself, he smiles.

Step five: Make him desperate, is going well.

“So, do you want me to suck your cock or not?” he prompts after he warrants enough time has passed.

Thancred drags his head up. Ikael smiles at him.

Thancred licks his lips, looking pained. He says, “I…”

Then he… draws back. Frowns. Cups Ikael’s cheek with one hand and pushes aside his bangs with the other, peering at him.

“You get this little wrinkle in your forehead,” he says, voice piecing itself together with alarming speed and efficacy, “When you are bullshitting someone.”

And it has dropped. Ikael suppresses a shiver, unexpectedly, as Thancred straightens up. His face undergoes a metamorphosis from disquieted to so dangerously confident, and he drops the hand parting Ikael’s hair to trail it up his back, slow and deliberate.

_Oh_, Ikael thinks weakly.

Thancred—there is no other word for it—smirks. It is slow, and sly, and says _I’ve got you now_, and Ikael tries to look away because his heart is thundering, suddenly, in his chest, but Thancred has a hand cupping his jaw and it does not give.

“_Very_ good,” he praises, and oh, Ikael has never heard him use _that_ tone before. “You had me for a second there. Do you know what, Ikael? It occurs to me now that your entire plan is, perhaps, a smidgen unfair.”

Ikael cannot speak the first couple of times he tries. On the third, he gets out, “How—how so?”

Thancred hums, making a considering face. “Because it is all about _you_ seducing _me_, my dear. Which begs the question,” He strokes his thumb over Ikael’s cheekbone, smooth and unhurried, “When do _I_ get a turn?”

“A-ah,” Ikael squeaks, “What?”

“Do I,” Thancred enunciates, as if he _wants_ Ikael to feel as if he is being burned from the inside out, “Get a chance to seduce _you?”_

His hand is so warm against Ikael’s face. His eyes lick like the sweetest flame, and he is smiling. He is _smiling_.

Ikael gathers some of himself together. “It depends,” he says, wetting his lips.

Thancred's gaze unabashedly drops to his mouth. “On what?” he asks leisurely.

“On what you were thinking during the massage,” Ikael replies.

And Thancred’s eyes are back, this time to burn. He opens his sweet mouth, and he says—

He says—

He says, “I was thinking that there was nothing I wanted to do more than nudge that little excuse of a covering aside and pleasure you senseless, to be honest.”

His voice is so casual it is dizzying. It is but a murmur, so quiet, just for Ikael’s ears.

Ikael says, faintly, “Oh.”

Thancred's lips curl into a perfect smile. Ikael imagines those lips ghosting up his neck, whispering promises. He closes his eyes with a shudder.

He feels Thancred's heat move closer, until there is a forehead pressing against his own, hot breath against his lips. Thancred whispers, “If I am to devise a plan, I hope you don’t mind if I simply skip to the last step.”

Ikael breathes, “Which step is that?”

Thancred kisses him.

It is slow, and then all at once it is fast, and deep, and searing. Thancred kisses him as if he cannot breathe but in the heat of their mouths. His hand over Ikael’s back pulls him closer, curls into his skin and holds him, keeps him there but does not trap him.

They sever for but a moment, and then their mouths meet again, and again. Thancred is cradling Ikael’s jaw, stroking delicately with his thumb as if he is afraid to shatter him. Ikael bites his lip to show that he is not a thing to be easily shattered. Thancred groans.

“Ikael,” he exhales, fluttery over Ikael’s mouth. Their temples press together. “Sweet, dear Ikael. Listen to me. Wait.”

Ikael hums to show that he is waiting. He rakes his hand down Thancred's back to show that he is impatient.

It earns him a muted noise. Thancred says, through it, “You were scared, before. I want to know—I _need_ to know—that you want this. Not that you just want me.”

“I do,” Ikael confirms without hesitation.

Thancred shakes his head. “No, think about it—”

“You didn't.” Ikael lets out a small laugh. “Don’t you get it, Thancred? You _didn’t_. During the massage, you wanted to touch me more but you did not. You didn’t even let me know you were aroused, and lie all you want about how I could have figured it out, Thancred, but I’ll be damned if the reason you didn’t let me notice anything wasn’t because you _knew_ I was scared.”

Thancred's silence is all the confirmation he needs. Ikael laughs again against him, choked and quiet.

“I knew it,” he whispers. “You knew from the start, didn’t you? Maybe not about the plan, but what I wanted from it.”

“I knew from our dinner last night,” Thancred corrects. “Or at least, I had my suspicions. But you were so frightened. You were shaking even from the first spoon you dropped, did you know that? You pushed and you pushed, hoping for a reaction, but I did not want to push back because I was afraid you would simply fall.”

Ikael kisses him, his warm lips. Thancred inhales against his mouth, then seals them together once more.

“Now I want to get this damned thing off,” he murmurs when they part. “To say that it is _flattering_ on you would be an understatement—but I would much rather touch skin uninterrupted by leather.”

He tugs on a strap for emphasis. Ikael hums in agreement, and tries to kiss him again.

This time it is Thancred who chuckles against his lips. “Ikael,” he says.

Ikael takes the hand on his back and guides it towards his front, where there is a tie below his abdomen. “There,” he murmurs. “Easy access.”

Thancred's breath hitches. “Indeed.” His deft fingers gently pull, and Ikael feels the tie loosen and come undone.

Thancred's hand stays where it is, and then slowly, regretfully, withdraws. He says, “Take your shoes off.”

Ikael frowns even as he slips out of them. “What—?”

Then he yelps, grappling against Thancred's back as he is hefted up and backed against the wall. Thancred steadies him, hooking his stocking-clad legs over his hips before squeezing the meat of Ikael’s thighs, running his hands greedily up what free skin he can touch.

He presses closer, and Ikael can feel the whole line of his body, firm and thrumming with heat. He burrows his face into the junction of Thancred's neck and inhales. He smells like sweat and desire and fabric and—the oil from the massage. Of course. The memory of it, of those lingering touches slowly stoking flames, makes Ikael shiver. He curls his hands against Thancred's back.

He feels fingers dipping underneath the straps and ties against his own back, looking for a way to loosen them. They don’t find one, and it garners a frustrated noise from the man against him—Ikael chuckles a little at him, can’t help it.

“Oh, laugh at me all you like,” Thancred grumbles, low but warm. “Keep this on and you’ll have imprints for days.”

“All the easier to remind you what caused them,” Ikael returns, raking his nails down the curve of Thancred's back. Either the action or his words earn him a muted groan.

“Tell you what.” Ikael gently nips at a soft hyuran earlobe. He smiles at the resulting tremor. “I’ll tell you how to take it off if you take your shirt off.”

“Deal.” All at once, Ikael is being lifted again. He holds on tightly—perhaps more than necessary—as Thancred walks them to the bedroom. Soon Ikael is being set down on a clean, now towel-less bed.

Thancred shucks his tunic without preamble, tossing it aside with a motion that makes his pectoral flex—Ikael watches with a swallow—and hooks in his fingers in his trousers as well, undoing their clasp and pulling them down. Shoes and socks go, and then he is climbing onto the bed in naught but his smalls, his interest now clearly evident.

Ikael doesn’t even pretend not to stare. “You, ah—you missed something.”

Thancred flashes his teeth. “If I recall, we had a bargain…?”

Ikael lets out a shaky breath, pretending it’s a sigh. “All right, all right.”.

He rolls over and climbs on his hands and knees before thrusting his arse out. “It’s below my tail,” he says.

There is a pregnant pause. Then warm fingers are touching him with the utmost delicacy, taking care as they lift his tail and check. Ikael stretches himself out helpfully, kneading the bed and arching his spine further.

He hears Thancred’s breath rush out of his lungs, all in one go. “I was expecting—Twelve. There’s nothing here, just the fastening. Right.”

Ikael fakes a dramatic gasp. “You were expecting _what_, Thancred? Nothing… _indecent_, I hope. Not from little innocent _me_.”

“Your insouciant taunting will be your downfall,” Thancred precautions. Ikael can feel him undoing the fastening, forced into intimate closeness by its position. But his fingers are steady even so, and it is instead Ikael who swallows, trying not to twitch.

“Now is not the time to make up words,” he says, grabbing for a distraction against the feeling of Thancred's knuckles bumping inexorably close to his entrance. “I know you think that just because you had a fancy e-edu… a-ah…”

The pitch of his voice spikes up. Thancred retraces the light circle he had made with the flat side of his nail, slow and deliberate. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. What were you saying?”

He sounds smug. Bastard.

“A-a-ah… foreplay,” Ikael mumbles, fighting against the now involuntary twitches he can feel himself making. Thancred's finger doesn’t stop moving, because he is still a bastard. Who is also very attractive and _very_, Ikael now knows from personal experience, good with his hands.

Thancred makes a considering noise. Then his finger stops, before firmly dragging down across sensitive skin and—

Ikael is abruptly reminded about the fact that the front part of his outfit is also untied, and the piece that _was_ covering his sex is now hanging loosely, no longer fulfilling its purpose. He makes a startled, choppy noise as Thancred's finger runs down his wetness, much more lightly but still making enough contact to be felt.

“You're _very_ wet,” Thancred intones, voice low. Then he clicks his tongue. “Such a mess. I’ll enjoy cleaning it all up.”

“A-ah,” Ikael says intelligently.

Thancred's finger moves back up, tapping twice on Ikael’s skin before pulling away almost regretfully. A warm hand splays over his lower back.

“You ran off before I could finish the massage last night,” Thancred says as his touch slowly moves upwards. He is tugging at Ikael’s straps as he goes, all of them now coming loose since the main fastening is undone. “I never got to do your chest.”

Ikael feels two muscular thighs push against his own as Thancred's other hand moves to his stomach. “Sit up,” Thancred instructs. “On me, if you can. Easy does it.”

Ikael obeys, with his guidance, and is soon more or less sitting on Thancred's kneeling legs, spine arched and head leaning back against his shoulder.

“There’s a love,” Thancred praises into his neck. Ikael swallows.

The hand on his stomach slides upwards underneath what’s left of the straps, trailing fire up his skin. Ikael tries not to make an embarrassing noise and call it back when it pulls away to discard the garment.

“Easy, easy,” Thancred says soothingly. “I’ve got you, Ikael. What are you scared of, hm? I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, I promise.”

He begins to rub slow circles over Ikael’s stomach. Lips kiss gingerly below his jaw.

Ikael closes his eyes. “I know,” he breathes. “I know. It just feels—unreal. Being touched by you.”

“Oh?” Thancred's voice curves into a sly smile. “I’ll show you real, darling.”

His right hand, which has been resting on Ikael’s hip, climbs up his chest. He does not so much as utter a warning before he rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sucking a gentle bite beneath Ikael’s jaw at the same time.

Ikael cries out. He feels Thancred's smile grow. The hand on his stomach slowly slides up until it joins its pair, teasing Ikael’s other nipple. The touch is like lightning, and he arches further.

“Does this feel real enough to you?” Thancred murmurs into his throat.

“Not—not—a-ah! Sure. Need more… o-oh…”

Thancred's left hand abandons its task, making Ikael emit a disappointed whimper. It strokes its way down his abdomen, traces hot fire around his navel—and then the gentle, hesitant touch on his nipple pinches, ever so lightly. Ikael moans, loud and shocked.

“Oh, you are,” Thancred's voice dips low, “_Sensitive_.”

And Ikael is sensitive, godsdammit, but he doesn’t need to say it like _that_. “Nngh,” He protests, eyes fluttering. He gets a chuckle.

“I could spend bells having fun with you,” Thancred breathes. The hand on Ikael’s navel starts to trail lower, only touching him through barely there fingertips. “I would wring out every possible noise from your throat, until you could do naught but croak for mercy that would never come . I would draw out your pleasure until you all but begged for the simplest of touches. And when you’d think you could not take it any more, I would seal my mouth between your legs and fuck you with my tongue for an eternity and beyond.”

Ikael’s mind, already fraying at the edges, blanks. He is a quivering, melting, too-hot mess, and Thancred's hand is moving lower, and _lower_, and—

He pinches Ikael’s nipple again. Ikael cries out, loudly.

“_Fuck_,” Thancred mutters under his breath. He starts to roll the bud between his fingertips rapidly, while his descending hand dips past Ikael’s hipbone. Ikael is—gone, head thrown back, a high keen bleeding from his lips.

Losing some of its grace, Thancred's wandering hand slides over the junction of his thighs, and finally touches the outer edge of his sex. Ikael only spreads his legs, jerking at another tweak.

The touch on his nipple switches to his other one. The hand at his sex slips into his folds, stroking torturously slowly. Ikael feels a fingertip slowly dip into his entrance.

“Not inside,” he pants. “Not the front.”

The fingertip withdraws as Thancred nods against his shoulder to show that he had heard. Then it moves higher, and this time its touch is _very_ welcome.

“Interesting,” Thancred mutters, something scholarly (and boring, probably) connecting in his mind. Ikael isn’t an expert on any sort of anatomy, so he does not know too well how his differs, but he does know that the little nub Thancred is rubbing makes his pleasure spike into whiteness, makes the heavy throb in his sex turn sweet at the edges. He moans, rolling into the touch.

“How many times can you come?” Thancred demands gruffly. His hands—both of them—are moving faster. The question startles Ikael’s eyes open, even as he jerks into Thancred's now steadily kneading hand.

“A-a-ah—don’t—don’t know,” Ikael manages. Thancred's touch quickens, and he cries out.

“Good enough.” The rubbing speeds up exponentially, and it _stays_ at that pace—not giving Ikael an ilm to catch his breath—it is—so hot and it feels so good and Ikael is keening, moaning, eyes rolling back in his head as he all but humps Thancred's expertly skilled fingers. He comes with a whine and a strong shudder, helpless against the warm body at his back.

Thancred inhales into his skin as he eases them down onto the bed. “That was twenty-four bells overdue, I’d say.”

“_Thancred_.” Ikael pulls at him, wanting to touch, stroke, feel. “Thancred you’ve had an erection for an entire day because of me! Why don’t you put it to good use?”

A puff of laughter breaks against his skin. “That’s not quite—”

“Thancred my seduction plan worked you have to agree to everything I say now.” Ikael speaks over him. He scrabbles at Thancred's smalls, trying to pull them down.

Teeth nip dully at the skin of his collarbone. “Oh, is that what happened?”

Ikael nods vigorously. He is stopped by a soft touch to his cheek, and chapped lips open against his own. He moans softly, eyes fluttering shut.

“Blessed silence,” Thancred murmurs as he moves his kisses down Ikael’s jaw.

It takes a second, and then Ikael squeaks indignantly. Thancred is already laughing, warm choppy breaths ebbing like waves over hot skin. Ikael huffs. He raises a hand with the intent to run it through silver hair—maybe tug a little, because he is not above pettiness, but Thancred catches his wrist.

Looking into Ikael’s eyes and giving him a small, gracious smile, he sucks the tip of his forefinger into his mouth.

The response, embarrassingly, is immediate. Headiness rushes down Ikael’s spine and pools between his legs, thickening, throbbing. He stares with what he is certain is a very unattractive expression, for a moment utterly frozen.

Thancred tilts his head so he can suck against the wall of his teeth, flicking his tongue through the gap. His pretty eyelashes fall, turning half-lidded as he concentrates on what he is doing. Ikael lets out a choked noise.

Thancred finally lets his finger out, smile back and smug at the edges. Ikael merely drops his hand, forgetting what he was going to do.

It doesn’t matter, he decides as he yanks with his free hand, liberating Thancred of his smalls. Thancred stumbles, momentarily caught unawares. Ikael takes the opportunity to wrap a hand around his cock—the hot, heavy length of it—and stroke, slow and tight. Thancred makes a low, guttural sound. His body quivers, as if he is fighting some hidden urge Ikael is not privy to.

He would like to be. He moves his hand faster, swiping his thumb underneath the tip witch each upstroke in a way he knows a lot of men like. He does not know what Thancred likes, but he can learn, and he _wants_ to learn, wants to know how to coax every noise of every pitch out of those sweet, perfect lips.

“I want to taste you,” he breathes into the delicate shell of Thancred's odd hyuran ear. It earns him a shudder. “I want to do—everything to you. I want to suck you and I want to lick into you and I want to fuck you and I want to ride you and I want to touch you, everywhere, I want to—”

His tirade is broken off by a searing kiss, this time one with more than a hint of desperation. Thancred's hair falls onto his face, curling and soft. His body presses into Ikael’s, a line of strength and muscle and skin and heat, too tightly for him to wedge a hand in between them to tease, or touch, or anything. Still, he can keep stroking his cock, and he does, not stopping even when Thancred moans, high and hoarse, into his mouth.

“Pick one,” Thancred orders. His voice is strangled. “Pick—pick one, because I swear, Ikael, I cannot last for more than just that.”

“Oh,” Ikael whispers conspiratorially. “So your ‘legendary’ stamina is just a legend, yeah?”

Thancred's broken laugh turns into a moan as Ikael’s hand speeds up. “Weren’t you the one who said,” he manages, chest heaving, “that I’ve been hard for the whole—_a-ah—_the whole day?”

Ikael’s hand stops. Thancred muffles a whimper into his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be able to talk smarter than me while I am getting you off, I have decided,” Ikael announces. “You do not happen to have something I could wear to fuck you lying around here, do you?”

Thancred looks at him, face heated, eyes large and dark, and shakes his head slowly. Ikael would like to construe it as apologetic.

He sighs. “That is too bad. Not even a cucumber?”

“_Not_ a good idea,” Thancred says instantly.

“Oh, that was very quick,” says Ikael. “Does that mean that you have one, or—”

“I don’t,” Thancred interrupts. Loudly.

Ikael almost believes him. “Okay,” he says anyways, putting the matter aside. “Then you can fuck _me_, I suppose.”

Thancred flashes a grin at him, pleased and bright. Ikael is about to roll his eyes and make a comment about cocks and hyur and how it is a pity they won’t be able to go for more than a couple of rounds, really, but Thancred derails his train of thought with a dizzying kiss.

“I’ll be right back, love,” he murmurs against Ikael’s lips. Another brilliant smile, and his the heavy heat of his body lifts up and off.

Ikael stares up at the ceiling as Thancred searches, from the sound of it somewhat desperately, for whatever he uses as lubricant. This part of sex is always a lovely opportunity to philosophize, Ikael muses. Sometimes, what you really need in the middle of fucking each other’s brains out is a moment to reflect on your life choices. Such as the last time you chose to wash your bedsheets.

“That oil really got into everything, didn’t it?” Ikael says out loud. He can still smell it. “Wow.”

“It did.” Thancred comes back, trailing a line of kisses down Ikael’s abdomen before glancing up at him. “I couldn’t sodding sleep last night because of it. Had to nap on the armchair.”

Ikael makes a concerned, “Oh,” fully prepared to coo about how Thancred should try to get a full night’s rest, really, poor thing, and would he like to pause the sex and sleep now? He must be tired—but there is a sudden hot, wet stripe licking up his sex, and he jumps, thoughts jittering into nothing.

“Don’t say something stupid,” Thancred mutters, pressing a slippery fingertip into his lower entrance.

Ikael draws his knees up to angle himself into a better position. “Wasn’t going to,” he breathes. After a moment, he tries anyways, “You—”

Thancred seals his lips around his sex and sucks. It really is unfair, Ikael thinks as his tongue flattens and begins to lap, rhythmic and unyielding. He shouldn’t be… He shouldn’t…

Ikael moans softly, lifting his hips. Thancred's free hand presses him back down, bracing him against the bed. His other is working one nimble finger into him, stroking and curling.

Ikael shakes, trembles, whimpers as Thancred slips in another finger and increases the pace of his tongue. He seems to be making good on his promise earlier, worming it in _everywhere_, in every little nook and cranny in and around his sex and under every fold. Ikael doesn’t know whether he really is trying to clean him up or if he is just being a damned _tease_, because those talented lips are going anywhere but where he wants them to be.

He keens softly, unsuccessfully trying to thrust out his pelvis and clenching around Thancred's fingers to get him to hurry up. He feels a hot puff of air against his thigh—laughter, he realizes semi-indignantly. What a—

“Since you’ve been so patient,” Thancred rumbles. He adds a third finger and starts to grind them, unhurried, against a spot inside Ikael that makes him cry out. His tongue licks one last, broad stroke up his sex, and then it focuses on that sensitive nub, this time with clear purpose.

Ikael is chasing his release, is _just_ about to come before Thancred _stops_, the bastard. Ikael is ready to unleash a line of vicious, multilingual curses, but Thancred arches up and kisses him. And he is smiling. Ikael melts instead.

Thancred sucks on his bottom lip. “Turn around,” he murmurs. “Or however you like.”

Ikael looks at him—at his flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, crow’s feet crinkling the edges in a smile. He blushes, turning his head to the side, and follows suit with his body.

“I wan’feel all’ve you,” he mumbles into the pillow, shifting his top leg.

Thancred kisses his neck, soft and tender. “Alright,” he says quietly.

He settles in behind Ikael, warm welcome heat returning and cocooning him. Lips press between his shoulder blades, and then Thancred gently lifts his leg, and there is the unmistakable feeling of a cock nudging against his entrance.

Ikael forces his muscles to relax, years of practice helping him let go of any lingering tension. Thancred murmurs to him, soft praises against his back interspersed with wet kisses. He slips in slowly and smoothly, and Ikael groans at the feeling.

Thancred pushes in until their thighs are flush together and then pauses, nosing against Ikael’s shoulders. Ikael would think him unaffected but for the tremor he can feel—and hear, this close—in his breathing, the thudding of the heartbeat beating against the back of his ribcage.

“Are you…?” Thancred's voice barely gives him away. But even just that short bit, that small break in it, is enough. Ikael nods, nudging his hips back to encourage him.

Thancred begins to move, slow at first. Each drag of his cock aches, burns like sweet fire, hot but not hurting. Ikael makes an open-mouthed noise against his pillow, shifting back to meet every gradual thrust.

Their pace increases. Thancred slides his hand over Ikael’s form, along his side and the swell of his thigh. It slips lower, between his rolling legs, then cups his knee and—hefts.

Ikael lets out a surprised, involuntary moan. Thancred answers in kind, thrusting faster into this new, _deeper_ angle. He presses lips and teeth and tongue into the junction of Ikael’s neck, nibbling lightly and then soothing, sucking. Ikael tips his head back with a whimper. Thancred moans in reply.

His thrusts speeds up. His hand wriggles underneath Ikael’s elevated leg, keeping it held up with his own, and then zeroes in on his sex with only exact purpose, any notion of teasing now long lost.

“A-ah…” Ikael cannot tell who makes the noise, because it feels as if he and Thancred are one. Their breaths, their heartbeats, their unitary movement, the cock scraping against his sweet spot with each unerring thrust, the hand now equaling its pace with two determined fingers against his sex. He feels something akin to a growl reverberate through his spine, and then the thrusting turns into _plunging_, long and jagged and so, so deep, and those fingers are _relentless_—

Ikael comes, his eyes rolling back into his head with the force of it. He is only aware of the long, pitching keen leaving his lips as the growl behind him swears viciously, digging nails into his thigh, and Thancred’s now irregular thrusts snap, pulsing hot, liquid pleasure inside of him.

Ikael is panting heavily when Thancred gingerly pulls out of him, pressing his face against the back of his neck. He feels one last kiss, soft and tired, before all contact leaves. Ikael whines softly, and is immediately met with a low, soothing murmur. He relaxes.

A cloth dips carefully between his legs, lifting him up and then easing him back down. Soon enough that Thancred is back, nuzzling into the junction of Ikael’s shoulder, warming him once more.

“So,” he mumbles after so long has passed Ikael is almost certain he had had a short, impromptu nap, “I should return the favour to Tataru somehow, hm?”

“You’re going to set Tataru up with Hien?” Ikael mumbles back.

Thancred's breathing pauses, then resumes. “_Hien_?”

“Yeah.” Ikael yawns. “She said if I didn't want him, he’s fair game. Though ’s not true. I already had’m. So.”

Thancred doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Ikael has just about decided he doesn’t care, and he is beginning to forget the conversation anyway and fall asleep, when Thancred asks, “You slept with the Lord of _Doma?”_

“Hmm.” Ikael doesn’t want to think about talking too much. He is sleepy. “I slept with you. ‘S more difficult.”

“… I don’t even want to know what you’re implying about either of us. Huh. Well, if he’s ever around when we get back home, perhaps us and him could have… something of a get-together. What do you say, hm?” He winks.

After a beat, “Ikael?”

Ikael snores at him.

Thancred sighs. “_Thancred's_ Seduction Plan,” he tries out after a minute. “No. Thancred's Unerringly Accurate Guide to Intimacy. No. Thancred's Late Years: Re-prostituting Hims—"

Ikael kicks him, then goes back to snoring.

Thancred gets the message.

~*~


End file.
